Born from the Hearth
by The Pencil Of The Gods
Summary: A chance meeting brings for a pair of new possibilities. An man burdened by bitter loss and a loning to return home, meets the goddess of hearth, home and family. From these two comes the first ever children of Hestia, the twins of hearth and home, Florian and Joseph. This their story; the children born from the hearth.


Born From The Hearth

Hestia rarely ventured out of Camp Half-Blood, even if it was via splitting her consciousness, as other the other gods often do. She simply found no need to do so, preferring to focus her time and power on tending to the hearth; not just the one in Camp Half-Blood, but all those around America, where the Heart of the West lay.

Of course, that was not to say that did not occasionally interact with mortals – she was, in the end, an Olympian much like the rest of them, and enjoyed the company of mortals, albeit in a different way from her family. She loved to hear their stories – not the grand, far-reaching tales that most gods preferred, but the small, seemingly unimportant ones they told to each other by the fireside, the stories of their lives and the minute events that took place day-by-day.

These were, for her, the best kind of stories there were. No matter how great the hero, they had all begun at home, and it was the small events that took place there that shaped them. Hestia enjoyed watching these little beginnings, and was silently proud that she'd had a hand, despite how small it was, in raising every hero known to man. From Herakles to Percy Jackson, she was there, her influence silently watching over them, not interfering but at the same time, making sure that these heroes could find shelter from the trials of the outside world as they stepped into their refuge and her one sacred place – home.

Occasionally, Hestia would take physical form and visit certain households, ones that met certain criteria. Homes that were beset with troubles brought down to them through no fault of their own, homes that were wrecked by petty squabbles of the gods, and homes that were torn apart for unknowingly involving themselves in the world of the Olympians. Hestia blessed these families with whatever was within her power, so for a time, none could trouble home and family, and they could recover from the harshness of the world.

It was during one particular outing that she met the one mortal that had captured her interest like no other had.

It was from this meeting that the twins of Hestia were born

* * *

Hestia walked through the streets of the unassuming village. She'd come from paying a visit to one of the poorer locals, who's sister died after unfortunately getting caught in-between a demigod and a rather nasty duo of Lamia's. Once the family was finished grieving today after the girls' funeral, they would be surprised to find their house completely free from faults and a warm meal over a roaring fire waiting for them.

She smiled proudly at her handy work and was just about to go to a nice, unnoticeable spot where she could promptly vanish without notice, when she felt something . . . warm, tug at her senses.

It was a warmth she was very familiar with; she was the _goddess _of the hearth, after all.

_Strange, _she thought. She wasn't aware of any demigods nearby, and only they could call upon her from the hearth.

The goddess walked towards the source of the warmth – perhaps it was an unclaimed demigod? In that case, Hestia may as well bring him or her back to Camp and save Chiron and the other half-bloods the trouble.

The calling from the hearth was coming from a large house that seemed to radiate depression. Actually, calling it a house would be an insult to houses everywhere; this place didn't feel like a home, it felt like a _warehouse_, big and lifeless.

The house was neat, but overall not very well cared for. The paint was faded from wind and rain, and the fences were wrecked and termite eaten. The metal gate look rusted and parts of it were bent.

The one thing Hestia could look positively on was that the plants where obviously well-cared for. The flowers and vegetables looked vibrant, in stunning contrast to the dying house.

Perhaps whoever lived here was a child of Demeter?

Hestia walked straight through the fence, not bothering to climb over it. The call of the hearth resonated with her once again, and being this close to the source, she could feel the sadness and longing coming from whoever was 'sacrificing' to her. Well, not necessarily sacrificing to 'her', seeing as whoever was using the fire was not calling to her specifically, but there was something in whoever was there that resounded within her.

How strange.

She couldn't sense anyone inside the house, but there was one presence nearby, just in the back, in what she presumed was the backyard of the building. That was good. She'd hate to have to enter this persons home uninvited – not only was it rudeness in the extremes, but it would go against everything she stood for as a goddess. That aside, she didn't want to have to knock on the door and introduce herself, which, in all honesty, was a tad demeaning and embarrassing for her as a goddess.

The closer she got to the backyard, the more she could feel the call. She could see a small outdoor chimney in the area, along with the smell of burning wood and meat.

She arrived at the backyard and saw a lone man seated on a wooden stool, cooking beef inside an outdoor chimney.

* * *

The man seemed to have noticed her. He looked surprised.

"Well, what are you doing here little girl?"

Hestia blinked a little, before remembering what she probably looked like to the man; a lost little girl covered in soot. She struggled to piece together an answer him when he simply chuckled.

"Oh what does it matter? Say, are you hungry?" he asked, nodding towards the beef being cooked.

Hestia remained silent and the man blinked. "Oh! My, whoops, that probably sounds suspicious to you doesn't it?" he said, looking sheepish. "Are you lost?"

Snapping out of her thoughts, Hestia shook her head. "No, I was just . . ." She trailed off unsure of what to say. She couldn't very well tell him that she came here following the feel of a possible offering to her, and that she had suspected he was a half-blood of the ancient Olympian gods.

". . . attracted by the smell," she said quickly after a brief glance at the cooking meat. She was glad for that piece of hearth for giving her an excuse.

The man stared then chuckled. "So you _are _hungry?"

Playing along with her lie, Hestia nodded. She wanted to find out the mystery behind this man's calling her, albeit unconsciously.

"Well, if you're not too scared of this old codger, perhaps you'd like a bite?" he said, gesturing towards the food, which looked just about ready to eat. "It's not much, but I don't mind sharing."

Hestia nodded again, and approached him steadily. He smiled and got a plate nearby, placing the beef on top of it.

"Would you like seasonings?" he asked, nodding towards a table set with spices and various herbs.

Again, the small goddess nodded, and the man smiled. "What would you like? Salt, pepper, or . . . ?"

Hestia just walked to the table and served herself. Satisfied, the man went to get his own helping, and the two settled into a comfortable silence as they ate.

Now that she was up close, Hestia had to admit, the man was older than she'd thought. He had worn, wrinkled eyes, the left of which was a dull gray – a clear sign that he could no longer see through it. His hair had streaks of white in it, and despite the fact that he had a large body, she could tell that every movement he made inspired his back and legs to ache, which caused his eyes to scrunch a little in indication. She estimated he was probably in his mid-fifties or early sixties.

She wondered what exactly was within this man that called out to her. As far as she was aware, this man was no demigod, nor was he even the legacy of one. He was just a normal, simple, mortal.

"So," he said, breaking the silence and her train of thought, "what's a petite thing like you doing alone in a dreary place like this? Where are your parents, at home?"

Hestia shook her head.

"No? Well, where are they?"

"I . . . don't have parents." Technically true, as the Titaness Rhea was missing and her consort, Hestia's father, Kronos, was dead, scattered across the world, for now, at least.

The man's eyes widened. "Ah . . . are you an orphan, then?" Suddenly he smacked himself in the face, looking as if he'd said something stupid. "Oops, sorry, that was an insensitive question."

"So, um, what's your name?" he said, quickly shifting the topic.

Hestia smiled at his attempt at being sensitive to her supposed situation. Whoever he was, the man had good heart at least.

"I'm He-" the goddess caught herself before accidentally revealing her name. She didn't know why; there was no harm in simply telling him her name – it wasn't as if it would be significant to him. Still, she refrained from doing so. She felt that . . . that it wasn't time. Not yet.

"Hearth," she continued. It was the best name she could think up on the spot, but she thought it suited her nicely.

"Just Hearth?" he asked.

Hestia nodded in affirmation.

"Huh, so . . . um, Hearth, what _are _you doing here? Where do you live?"

Hestia struggled to think of an answer. It dawned on her that it had been _centuries _since she'd talked to a mortal that was unaware of her true identity. She was out of touch with the world, she realized.

The man, on the other hand, took her stiff silence as an indication that she was uncomfortable with his question.

"I guess that was a bad question too huh?" he said, rubbing the back of his head in embarrassment. " F'course a kid like you wouldn't have a good place to live, unless it was an orphanage."

Hestia, glad at the man's misunderstanding, nodded in a manner that could pass as reserved. "Yes, I live in an orphanage," she answered.

The man nodded. "Ah, I suspected as much. Why are you covered in dirt, by the way?"

"I was cleaning the hearth," answered the goddess.

The man stared at Hestia, as if trying to figure something out. "Hearth . . . you mean you were named after a fireplace?"

Hestia didn't know who she was more annoyed at: Herself for forgetting what the hearth was usually referred to in modern times, or modern people for changing its name. She decided to let it go for now, but clearly her face showed a little of her displeasure, because the man looked sheepish again.

"Woah! No need to pout like that Hearth! So I take it you don't like your job . . . or name?"

Hestia was probably frowning even deeper, because the man inched away a little bit.

"I like my job very much, thank you," she answered evenly, yet looking at him sternly in the eye. Honestly! Just because it wasn't the most glorious of duties in Olympus, doesn't mean she did not enjoy watch she did. Humble work it may be, but it was an important job, and someone had to do it.

"Uh, you do?" he said, unsure of what to make of that. "I guess if it's fine with you . . ."

"It is!" insisted Hestia.

"Okay okay," said the old man with a chuckle. "So, how's the food?"

Hestia looked at her plate, and was about to take another bite when she'd realized she'd already finished her plate. She remembered taking the first bite, but afterwards . . .

Her eyes widened as the memory of viciously delicious attacks on her palette resurfaced from her memories.

"It's good!" she concluded enthusiastically, temporarily losing a little of her Olympian grace. By the gods it _was _good! It wasn't in the herbs and spices, because she had added that _afterwards _it had been cooked, and they were only mediocre at best. No, the deliciousness came from how the meat itself was cooked.

"How did you . . . ?" said Hestia. It wasn't the best meal she'd eaten, as nothing on earth could match the taste of nectar and ambrosia, which tasted like whatever you wanted to, but for this man to make such a filling meal with nothing but the simple things he had with him, was impressive to say the least.

The man laughed. "My, that's a bit of an overreaction, I think. It's nothing special really!"

Hestia disagreed.

"So," said the small goddess, helping herself to more food, "what's your name, sir?"

The man blinked. "Well, in all the excitement of having someone to talk to, it looks like I've forgotten my manners."

"I'm Pierre Daclan, it's a very nice to meet you, Hearth," said the man. He extended his arm in greeting and smiled.

Hestia smiled back and shook Pierre's outstretched hand. In the current form she was in, her child-sized hand was completely enveloped in the man's own large hand.

"What are you doing, living here all alone?" asked Hestia.

The look on the Pierre's face immediately told Hestia that it was her turn to apologize for asking a bad question.

"No, never mind, I apologize," said Hestia, backtracking.

"There's no need to apologize, Hearth. It's fine."

_No it's not, _thought Hestia. His expression on face was . . . it was _strange_. That was the only way she could describe it. The expression was not one of pain, or anger even. It was an expression full of emotion, yet was wrapped tightly by longing and sadness.

"This place . . . well, in simple terms, it's my home."

Hestia nodded, waiting for Pierre to continue.

"I was born and raised here," he made a gesture towards the building, a smile on his face, "as was my own family."

To Hestia, it was understandable that he'd want to live here. She well understood the attachment people had to their home. But there was one thing that was she did not understand . . .

"Your family?" she questioned. "But there's no one here."

The man smiled, but in Hestia's opinion, it was rather forced and painful looking.

"Ah, well, they aren't around anymore."

Hestia flinched. Of _course_ that was the case.

"I'm sorry," she said. Again, it seemed they had swapped places, and the goddess was asking all the wrong questions.

Pierre didn't respond to her apology, and continued on, still smiling. "Even if they aren't here anymore, I continue to take care of this place. It's hard – I may have enough money to take care of this place, but not nearly enough time to maintain it. Plus . . . I don't see the point in making it look too good," he said with a reserved smile.

"What happened?" Hestia blurted out uncharacteristically. As he talked, she felt something coming from him, a kind of _pull, _like whenever people sacrifice and pray to her, but much _stronger._

She had the urge to find out more about him, to understand why this person valued home so and why he called out to her unconsciously.

Suddenly, she realized that she was asking him to dig up old and painful wounds. She frowned. This wasn't like her. Usually she had more restraint than this.

"I'm –," she began, apologizing again.

Pierre cut her off. "Don't apologize. If anything, I want to thank you, hanging out with a crusty old guy like me."

He looked at her in the eyes, and Hestia felt the urge to pull back. His honest stare embarrassed her for some reason.

"My parents died," he began, "about ten years ago now. Mom died of cancer, and Dad couldn't cope. He was never really strong hearted, like that. They'd died just three years after I got back from that mess at Lebanon."

He shook his head. "I was already married when they died, so my wife and kids helped me cope, so I didn't have much of a hard time accepting their deaths.

"Lebanon?" said Hestia. She'd heard about that. Ares was glad for a chance to see some action and bloodshed, and mentioned the upcoming campaign to practically everyone on Olympus. "You are a soldier, then?"

Peter smiled. It seemed a little forced in Hestia's opinion. "Lt Col. Pierre Daclan, United States Marine Corps," he said with a small salute. "I served for two years there, my own choice, and came back when it all ended.

"Then, three years afterwards, the Gulf War began, and of course, I had to be there. My kids, adorable little twins, were only seven at the time. I can still remember; I hugged my wife and said, 'Don't worry! I'll be back home in a year, you just wait for me hon'!"

Pierre snorted bitterly.

"It was really hell on earth there, you know? Kid, if you can avoid it, never, _ever_ get involved in war. It's not pretty, or glorious, or whatever junk they make up in those Greek storybooks. There's no respect for the enemy, no dying gloriously and epically. It was all I could to remind myself, 'Get up! You've got a family to feed and a place to come back to, you promised!'."

"In the end, I got out of that hell-hole, and back to an empty home." He leaned back, looking so pained and fragile, Hestia thought that touching the man might've broken him.

"What happened to them?" she said quietly. Hestia was almost too afraid to ask what happened. It looked as if having to answer her question would end up breaking him.

"It . . . was a robbery. No one's sure what happened, but the police thought that she might've seen their faces. In any case, not one of my family was alive to see me come home."

Hestia could only watch silently as beads of tears formed around his wrinkled eyes. She regretted bringing up his wounds, but felt that it was necessary, if she was to get closer to him.

_Wait? Get closer to him?_ Why had she thought that?

Pierre continued, shaking the goddess from her thoughts. "I was raised all my life, told that home is the one place where you can find peace, and the one place you gotta do your damnedest to protect. I went through all kinds of hell and back to protect it, and in the end, after all my suffering, there was no home to return to."

Pierre closed his eyes, tears flowing freely down his cheeks, unmindful of her presence here. Hestia decided it was time for a quick change of topic.

"Your garden is very nice."

Pierre didn't respond, but Hestia continued talking. "I can see it's really well taken care of. Even after everything that's happened, you pay attention to it."

"It was my wife's idea," said Pierre suddenly, eyes still closed. "She insisted on growing it, along with or children. She said that it would be a symbol of us raising them."

"Your wife sounds like a very nice woman."

"Nice doesn't even begin to describe Marianne," he said, grinning a little. "She was practically a saint, putting up with me all those years! Hey, do you wanna know a little secret?"

Hestia was relieved that she had been able to drag him out of his depression, if only by a little. She nodded.

The man's grin grew wider. "Marianne was the one that proposed to _me._"

"What?"

"Yes! Back then, I was too nervous to work up the courage to ask her hand in marriage. I'd freeze up just thinking about it!" he said with a laugh. "But sweet Mari, bless her soul, she saw right through me, and asked me out on a date to the Hoover Dam. She was so forceful that time, a real change from her usual reserved attitude, so of course I accepted.

"Imagine my surprise when she got down on one knee and proposed!"

Pierre was laughing, reliving cherished memories. He looked a lot younger like this, thought Hestia. Seeing him now, she couldn't help but wonder if he was perhaps younger than he looked.

* * *

The two talked for a long while after that, though truthfully it was Pierre who did most of the talking. They switched topics every now and then, careful not to stray too deeply on the topic of his family, and as the hours stretched on, Hestia realized exactly what it was that called her to this man.

He was a man that lived for home and family, who cared for it with all his being. He had gone through so much, and in the end he was repaid with emptiness and misery. Pierre was a man who had fought for home.

Hestia realized as well, that even if it had disappeared from him, he still searched for it; another home, another hearth.

The goddess knew very well that a home was much more than a building. It was a place where your heart lay and could be at peace, where you could weather the storms of the outside.

He may have lost it once, but his heart still called for a place to call home, and so that meant his heart called out to _her. _Everything she was as a goddess, as a _living being _could not allow a man such as Pierre a lot like this. He did everything she expected a mortal must do for his family and more, and lost everything for it.

_Very well, _she thought, even as her she continued to listen to him talk. _I will do it. I will give him a home again._


End file.
